She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t shout.
She whispers truths the soul can’t doubt.
Her beauty’s sharp. It leaves a mark—
a blade of sun through alleys dark.
The cobblestones remember feet
that marched toward fame and smelled of meat.
Painters bled color. Poets lied.
And lovers burned, then turned to pride.
The Arno glints like it could speak—
in Latin, Tuscan, something Greek.
And every church is half a tomb,
where genius bloomed—and met its doom.
The statues stare. They’ve seen too much.
Their marble eyes still hold the touch
of hands that shaped a nation’s face,
then died in silence, out of place.
I passed the square. I passed the dome.
And still it didn’t feel like home.
She’s not a place you come to rest—
Florence demands your fevered best.